


Peccato Che È Un Puttana

by Kerowyn6



Series: Lymond AUs [1]
Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Abuse of Subtext, Angst, Canon-Typical Excessive Foreign Languages, Gen, Mafia AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 04:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11432751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerowyn6/pseuds/Kerowyn6
Summary: You didn’t say you’d like to punch his smug pretentious face. Instead, you stared at Lymond’s long eyelashes and tried to forget the glittering spite tucked behind them.





	Peccato Che È Un Puttana

“ _Ci sono_ ,” said the melodic voice from the deepest pits of hell, “ _certe famiglie per chi la malizia è un necessario dell’azione._ Ah, Jerott.” 

Jerott Blyth, studiously dimed to the dozen and staring at a sterling, spat. 

“ _Si_.” Lymond gave a light chuckle. “ _Buonaseratta, mi amore. Ho solo una domanda: che cosa cazzo fai qui?_ ”

Jerott had received a cuff to the head from the guard. “ _Vaffanculo._ ”

“ _Il tuo? Troppo usato_ ,” said Lymond, his face serene. “Your Italian has been improved by Joleta’s kind companionship. _Una puttana cattiva._ You have a type.”

Halfheartedly, Jerott threw a punch. The guard caught it, but did not let go in time. Pulling the poor man towards him, Jerott rammed his head into the bridge of the boy’s nose. Blood the color of his flame-red hair streamed down his face, and he reeled back. “ _Fottiti_ ,” he spat, and some of the red stained Jerott’s pristine white shirt. 

“Will’s had as proper a tutor in me.” Lymond stood from his second-rate throne behind the desk and wiggled a finger towards the door. “You may leave us, Will,” he said. “ _Ciao._ ” He cast an apologetic look at Jerott. “Smarter than he acts, that one. If only theory was practice. Wat Scott’s son, you know. Dreadfully useful.”

The boy had looked familiar. “How’d you manage that?”

“Amazingly enough,” said Lymond, producing two glasses and a bottle of champagne from somewhere, “I didn’t. He just showed up one day, spouting something horribly Hobbsian about the evils of man. Then, of course, he veered firmly into Nietzsche and I had to keep myself from falling asleep.” He swirled his finger of champagne and took a sip. “Do you know, I think logical thought died with God? We have much to credit the 19th century with.”

Jerott frowned at him and took a gulp of his champagne. “What?”

“Oh, very well. I can tell you’re in no mood for small talk. What are you in the mood for, Jerott?”

You didn’t say you’d like to punch his smug pretentious face. Instead, you stared at Lymond’s long eyelashes and tried to forget the glittering spite tucked behind them. 

“Another drink,” he said, and held out his glass. Lymond obliged. “I wasn’t here for you, you know. I don’t do that kind of work.”

“No?” He raised a careful eyebrow. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You always had more social conscience than you knew what to do with.”

“ _Grazie_ ,” said Jerott, and held out his glass again. “Better than no shame at all.”

“Freedom from others is second only to freedom from one’s self.” Lymond tucked himself, neat and catlike, on the corner of the desk. “You don’t know what you’re missing, my dear Jerott, with your double set of chains.”

Unable to formulate a satisfying riposte to that, Jerott took another sip of champagne. “Are you going to let me go?”

“I suppose I must,” Lymond mused. “If only to fuel what remains of apparent gentility.”

“What happened to freedom from others?”

“Ha.” He slid off the desk and turned from Jerott, pacing to the opposite wall. “If only.”

Squinting, Jerott inspected the stained glass of his champagne flute. “Francis, I’ve got to ask, do you even listen to the nonsense you spout sometimes? ‘Freedom from one’s self?’ I mean, what are you even talking about?”

Lymond, facing away, did not say anything for a moment. “Nothing,” he said finally. “Nothing at all.” And when he turned, lashes half-lidded over his eyes and hands clasped at the ends of his long tight sleeves, his expression was closed and final.

**Author's Note:**

> ...am I shamelessly milking the excessive Italian in the canon so as to practice my own? Maybe.  
>  Stay tuned for the next instalment of Lymond AUs: Pirate Queens Marthe and Oonagh.


End file.
